


Body Farming

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alpha Shane Madej, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Community: bfukinkmeme, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Filth with Feelings, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Omega Ryan Bergara, Protective Shane Madej, Scenting, Season/Series 04, Size Kink, intersex omega
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Failed suppressants and a surprise heat: the worst of cliches, and here Ryan stands, living the trope on location with the alpha he’s hopelessly in love with. Even worse, they’re spending the night in the famous Bell Witch Cave, completely alone and with no way to contact the outside world.Ryan knows he can survive and keep his preheat a secret, as long as Shane will stop being so protective and concerned. After all, it’s not like Shane wants to bond with him.Right?





	Body Farming

**Author's Note:**

> Every fandom needs a healthy supply of A/B/O, okay? Give me filth, or give me...idk, fluffy stuff. But also filth. Yes.
> 
> [coughs]
> 
> The Bell Witch Cave is on my shortlist of places I hope they visit, because I've always wanted to go there! It has such a rich mythology, and a place in my state's history, and the movie was good, but it fucked up the whole legend.
> 
> Also, I mean, sex in a haunted cave, amirite?
> 
> This is a fill for a prompt from the [bfukinkmeme](https://bfukinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/). I've never done a kinkmeme prompt for any fandom! [Here's the prompt](https://bfukinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/972.html?thread=6860#cmt6860), for those curious.
> 
> One final note: in my fanfics, I write cis male omegas as intersex. (Cis female alphas are _also_ intersex, but they aren't discussed much in this story.) Some of the biology is laid out, but I don't want you to get tripped up by surprise.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [edgarallanrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgarallanrose/pseuds/edgarallanrose/works). Thank you for poking my grammar into shape. <3
> 
> Anyway, bring forth the tale of dicks!

 

Ryan supposes it was only a matter of time until the frequent and prolonged exposure to a compatible alpha had an effect. Heat suppressants only work to an extent, curbing the biological urge to mate. No drug exists to fully repel omegan nature, unfortunately, and Ryan’s psyche latched onto Shane with an unbudgeable, unreasonable set of talons.

He hopes he can resist and keep the onset of his heat at bay. Not only does Ryan not want to ruin the shoot, but he needs to avoid the loneliness and emptiness and despair that have accompanied every heat he’s ever had.

Alphas dislike a strong omega, a mate who could potentially overpower them. Society frowns on weakness from anyone but an omega, misomegany of the worst kind. It hurts all of them, and especially omegas like Ryan who are not only male, but built, appearing more alphan than omegan. No matter how docile Ryan would be—and God, he wants to be restrained and covered, protected and sheltered under the care of an alpha—he can’t find a partner.

Betas like him, if he tops, which bores him; other omegas will fuck him, if only for the novelty, but they aren’t big enough to be satisfying. Ryan’s never shared a heat, or even been knotted. Knotting dildos exist, of course, and Ryan knows they wouldn’t satisfy him anymore than his normal toys. He wants a  _ real _ experience without having to pay for it.

The suppressants were a blessing; Ryan never felt undesirable, because the pills created a good reason for no one to want him. Life had been livable.

And then Shane came along.

They travel together; eat together; sleep beside each other, often in the same bed. Shane guards Ryan when he’s scared—teases him for being afraid in the first place, but ultimately provides a sense of safety. Ryan challenges him frequently, confident in his own theories, his pride impossible to hide. Other alphas scowled at Ryan in the past, trying to verbally put him back in his place; Ryan built up an immunity to it, being stubborn and persistent.

Shane rolls with it instead of fighting. He feeds off of Ryan’s energy and enthusiasm, encouraging him, not smothering. Smiling and silly  _ so fucking happy. _

He’s an infection, and Ryan wishes he could catch it; the perfect alpha, but Ryan knows baring his neck to Shane will only lead to disappointment.

When the worst of his moontime hits and the suppressant level drops, tamped down by raging hormones trying to jumpstart a heat, Ryan pictures Shane, the tallest alpha he’s ever met, a gentle giant. He wonders what it would be like, if they both acted according to their natures, curious how Shane would claim him. Ryan jerks off with one hand and fingers his cunt with the other; he doesn’t bother imagining Shane doing it, because Ryan’s hands are too small to be Shane’s. He does clamp his eyes shut and pretend Shane sits at the end of the bed, watching him, praising and urging him on, and Ryan comes with Shane’s name stuck on his tongue, unspoken, slick gushing over his hand, shooting white across his stomach.

Other nights, when sleep escapes him, Ryan considers the afterglow, of Shane lying on top of him, a welcome weight. Ryan’s soothed, imagining Shane wrapping him up in long limbs, locked together, blanketed in Shane’s scent, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

He knows it’s stupid, not to mention dangerous, the way Ryan buries his face in Shane’s pillow when he takes first go at the shower. Shane smells like campfire smoke and black tea, and Ryan longs to roll around in it until all he scents is Shane, covering his skin, like Ryan belongs to him. He might as well be; they always smell of each other because of proximity, living out of the same pockets.

But Ryan craves more. He guilt-trips himself when he accidentally objectifies Shane in his head, sexualizing him, spending too long thinking of how perfectly Shane would fill him up. The thought gets shoved away, always, though the seed of it remains planted in Ryan’s brain, poised to grow when Ryan lies in bed alone, staring at the ceiling.

The daydream blooms now, along with his heat, in the middle of a museum dedicated to a poltergeist.

Ryan needed a wide berth between him and Shane, whether he wanted it or not. He tried to keep his distance as they toured the Bell family’s log cabin. With the crew and a tour guide and the preeminent Bell Witch historian accompanying Shane and him, however, quarters were close—Ryan had bumped into Shane constantly, magnetized, then jerked away.

Shane had jokingly sniffed an armpit. “I don’t smell  _ that _ bad, do I?”

“Skeptics are kind of rank, actually. Like—like onions.”

“Onions are supposed to be very profound. Because of all the layers?” Shane grinned, grabbing Ryan by the elbow and pulling him back to his side. “Onion people are wise due to multiple levels of innate knowledge and personality.”

Ryan did his best not to lean into Shane’s warmth. “So Shrek is a philosopher now? Wait, does he even count as a person?”

“Hey, now, don’t hate on Shrek. He’s the patron saint of giant shut-ins!” When Ryan failed to laugh or even crack a smile, Shane asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Uh…” Ryan cleared his dry throat and hoped it sounded like a cough. “Woke up under the weather, that’s all.”

“This is exactly why you should never travel without a trusty umbrella gun,” said Shane. He failed to fake amusement—Ryan’s reaction time was practically gone. Shane’s face fell into a frown. “We can cut this short, you know. Come back and film another day.”

“Are you  _ kidding _ me? I’ve been waiting to cover the Bell Witch since season one! No  _ way _ am I bailing out!”

Shane tilted his head, and raised an eyebrow, and the tour moved on. They wound their way through the cemetery; the schoolhouse; the land where John Bell’s house once stood. Shane acted every bit the concerned alpha, albeit awkwardly, like he’d never figured out dynamics and was shuffling through every trope he recalled. His fingers brushed the small of Ryan’s back, the touch tentative; Shane’s hand reached for the side of Ryan’s neck, for the mating glands, only to land on and squeeze Ryan’s shoulder.

Performative action, as opposed to biological imperative. Sweet, in the way pineapple is sweet, buried beneath a thick shell, difficult to uncover, and stinging sour on the tongue before long. All Shane accomplished was reminding Ryan how easy he was rejected; it made him desperate for the genuine attention such gestures promised.

“You look peakish.” Shane tapped his hand on Ryan’s arm, reaching around his body. Ryan’s nose trapped Shane’s scent, heady and strong, making him sway on his feet. “Ryan, I think you’re really sick.”

“Who the fuck says ‘peakish?’”

“Well I the fuck do, obviously. And I’m serious,” said Shane. “You seem to be the only thing haunting the place.”

Ryan let his eyes slip closed. Shane was worried—a best friend kind of worry. He couldn’t take seeing nothing but friendship on Shane’s face, not on the cusp of heat. “I’ll be fine,” he told Shane. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” which was the truth, though it had been years since his last full heat.

Shane narrowed his eyes, but didn’t push the issue. For the rest of the tour, he kept his hands at his sides, letting Ryan pull away. It killed Ryan inside, Shane choosing not to assert dominance. The sickness in his chest intensified, unbearable.

He attempted discretion, wiping the sweat off his face, blaming the humidity. Ryan ducked behind a tree and reapplied the deodorant he’d emergency-packed before they left the blessed coolness of the hotel. When he thought he smelled himself and was certain no one was looking, Ryan pulled out his travel-sized spray bottle of scent blockers. All three of his water bottles were empty by dusk. Dinner was a mistake, but easily passed off as nerves.

By the time the crew drove off, leaving the two of them to camp alone overnight in the haunted cave, Ryan was in the  _ actual goddamn outhouse _ dealing with the first wave of heat-hungry nausea.

Shane raps on the door. “Hey, Ryan.”

“Mhm?”

“What the fuck is going on?”

Ryan can’t decide if he likes the distinctly alphan quality to Shane’s voice—he’s never heard it before, not directed at him. “It’s okay,” he chokes out, “I’m—”

“Don’t tell me you’re fine. You’re so far from fine, you need a grinder.”

“Oh God, please, don’t make me laugh.”

“Ry,” and it’s a different dominance, calming and soft, though still commanding. “Come on, at least open the door so I can hold your hair out of your face while you puke and roll my eyes when you try and divine supernatural meaning from the puddle.”

He groans, clutching his stomach. “I said not to make me laugh, knothead.”

“Can I at least get you something? Water? Crackers?”

“I—” Ryan bites his lip, closes his eyes, squeezes his hands into fists. What is there to say? Certainly not the truth: “I want your hands in my hair and your lips against mine,” or, “Hold me down and make me feel safe, even though I could throw you off, even though I’m stronger than you, no matter how big you are,” or, “On the worst nights, when nothing stops the ache, when it doesn’t matter how big the toy is or how hard I fuck myself, I try my hardest not to imagine it’s you, and I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

He can’t say that. Not a word.

“Ryan? Still with me?”

“I’m good,” says Ryan, resting his head against the door, Shane mere inches away. “But thank you.”

The silence hurts as much as his twisting guts. Shane slaps his palm against the door—tap tap, a woodpecker, a mechanic closing the hood. Ryan’s head jostles with the vibration hurtling through his temple, exacerbating his migraine.

“If you’re sure,” and Ryan can’t figure out Shane’s tone, but he knows the sound of Shane walking away, sneakers thudding against hard-packed dirt, and it’s the worst noise Ryan’s ever heard.

 

* * *

 

Seventeen minutes to midnight, and Ryan regrets choosing to endure his preheat in a haunted cave. If any of the betas in the crew had been allowed to stay, Ryan thinks he could have managed. But no, Ryan’s an idiot and decided not to reschedule when he figured out he was having the most cliche surprise heat of all time.

Arguing with Shane and knowing they’re being filmed by the camera four feet away helps, barely, since Ryan remembers how Shane always makes him feel better when they’re on location and Ryan’s truly freaked out, which makes him feel physically  _ worse, _ and he curses the ouroboros comprising his mind.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring your old pal, Mr. Spirit Box,” says Shane, yanking Ryan out of his traitorous brain.

“There isn’t even cell service out here.”

“Does the Blair Witch not phone home?”

Ryan laughs; it makes him dizzy. “I fucking hate you.”

Shane digs around in his bag. “So rude. I brought your Ouija board and you’re still being mean to me.”

“Wait, you brought the Ouija board? After the bridge demon ignored us?”

“Well, I did some research on Tumblr—”

“Oh God.”

“—and you were doing it all wrong.” Shane sets up the board between them with a flourish. “Pull out the grab bag of candles you inevitably brought, and let’s light this bitch up!”

“This is a terrible idea,” but Ryan tugs his bag over and does as Shane told him.

He freezes, hand in the backpack.  _ Oh God. He told me.  _ Told _ me. Alph— _

“Shit. I think I forgot the planchette.”

Shaking his head, Ryan tries to recover. He tightens his pelvic muscles, beginning to smell his slick, desperate to hold it back and not ruin his boxers. “You, uh. You packed matches, right?”

“Nope,” Shane says, chuckling, eyes scrunched up, and another wave of want courses through Ryan. “Sure didn’t.”

“How are we so bad at this?”

“A well-cultivated talent, to be sure.” Shane relaxes his face, but his grin remains crooked. “We could surround ourselves with flashlights? Assuming one of us brought extra batteries.”

Ryan averts his eyes—he can’t stand looking at Shane anymore. Even his palms are starting to sweat. “Did you…” He inhales as deeply as he’s able. “The lantern.”

“Not in my bag.” Shane hums. “Might’ve stuck it in yours, come to think of it. Come on, give it here.”

Passing a backpack over shouldn’t have such an effect on him. Watching Shane rummaging through his stuff doesn’t help, either. Ryan knows his bag will smell like Shane when he hands it back; if Ryan’s lucky, he won’t stick his head into the backpack and scent the fucking thing.

_ Goddammit. _

“Ryan?” Shane puts Ryan’s pack beside him, the bag rustling against the stone.

Ryan slowly recovers from being startled. “Mhm.”

“Please, tell me what’s going on.”

He wraps his arms around himself, because Shane’s concern stokes the fire, and Ryan knows he’s nearing his breaking point. Ryan grits his teeth against the insistent cramps, mortified, but the pain doesn’t go away. His body feels so empty, and Ryan thinks this is how he’ll finally go crazy, sitting in a disappointingly tourist-trapped cave some-fucking-where in Tennessee.

“That’s it,” says Shane. “I’m coming over there.”

He panics. “No, I’m—”

_ “Ryan.” _

Pure alpha. Straight dominance.

Ryan flicks his eyes up involuntarily, frozen in place. The whine comes out like more of a sob, and he draws up into a ball, head between his knees. Fuck this, and nature, and biology, and—

“Should—should I stay here?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan admits, holding his legs tightly as he shakes.

“I could go over here,” says Shane. Ryan hears him scooting across the floor of the cave. “There’s even this convenient rectangular trench for me to hide in.”

“Don’t sit in that! Someone was buried there once!”

“Seriously?” He knocks against the rock. “Somebody carved a grave into the rock?”

“Yes!” Ryan’s skin crawls for an entirely different reason.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Shane snorts. “So much for research.”

“It was the body of a Native American, according to legend,” Ryan tells him. “But the body was stolen.”

“I had noticed that, amazingly enough.”

Ryan glares at his own feet. “Maybe archaeologists—”

“You know,” begins Shane, “that always freaked me out a little.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s kind of...I don’t know, body snatching? Grave robbing? Which is illegal, unless you have a degree, and that’s weird.” Shane shuffles back over, but Ryan’s preoccupied, mental gears processing too hard to care. “Do they ask for permission?”

Ryan peeks over his knees; Shane sits next to him on the sleeping bag. “How did you sneak up on me?”

“They do in cop shows.”

“Or get a court order.”

“People have to protest to keep their dead relatives from being relocated! It just...that shit isn’t right.”

Ryan sits up as much as he dares, hating his womb as he does. “I’m honestly surprised, what with you being all, ‘Where’s the science?’”

“We shouldn’t go around digging folks up willy-nilly.” Shane settles in closer. “Did you know there’s an actual farm in Knoxville where they watch bodies decompose? That’s enough science for me. Volunteer corpses. People dying to get in.”

“Oh my god,” says Ryan, snickering, unfolding in increments. “You’re awful.”

“Do you think they get to make requests? ‘Oh, I hope they leave me on a pile of gravel in the hot sun—for science!’ Or maybe, ‘When I go, let me be a roach motel.’”

“That’s—Shane, that’s disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but it made you laugh.”

Ryan flushes all over from the attentiveness. “You’re a good alpha,” he whispers, and Shane looks like the one who’s about to fall apart.

“Not  _ so _ good.” Shane taps his fingers on his thighs, fidgeting. “Why didn’t you say you were in preheat earlier?”

“Because it’s the biggest Hollywood trope, an accidental heat. It’s fucking degrading, like all we’re really good for is sex, or else we think about it so much that our bodies follow suit.” Ryan feels tired, and defeated, and if he clenches his pelvic floor any harder, he’s going to pull a muscle. “I don’t want rescuing. But it’s not like anyone’s lining up to do it. Fuck, that body farm probably gets more action than I do.”

“Now I find that legitimately impossible to believe.” Shane pauses, considering. “Unless they hire necrophiliacs, I suppose.”

Ryan appreciates the diversion. “I’d hope they’d screen for that.”

“How do you screen for necrophilia?”

He laughs breathlessly, his body tense, one taut line. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s an interview question.” Ryan rolls his shoulders, regretting it immediately.

“Seriously, though.” Shane eases even closer to Ryan—God, he’s going to drown in his scent. “I bet you have alphas lined up around the block.” He elbows Ryan gently and adds, “Dying to get in there, too, right?”

And Ryan continues to laugh, except dryly, his mouth full of lemon and self-loathing. “Nobody wants an omega who doesn’t look like an omega. Too strong, too ‘masculine’, too this or that and the other.” He doesn’t want to cry, but his hormones aren’t giving him a choice. “There’s always something wrong with me. Shit, my body can’t even handle suppressants right.”

“Ryan—”

The words tumble out before Shane can continue. “No one cares that I’m still an omega, you know? I shouldn’t have to compromise myself just to get a fucking knot. It’s un-fucking-fair, being expected to be as dainty and ‘feminine’ as possible to make up for having a dick.”

“Like how female alphas are expected to be butch?” Shane speaks lowly, like he understands, or wants to, and Ryan can’t handle compassion in place of rejection. They’re sitting so close together, thighs almost touching. Ryan’s temperature rises, and he can’t handle that, either.

“Kind of?” He wipes his nose off on his arms, long past the point of caring. “Similar, I guess, but not exactly, because...well women have come a long way, acceptance-wise, rights-wise. They still get shit—female omegas the worst. But male omegas? We always get the end of the…” Ryan hides his face in his hands, trailing off. “I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.”

“To be fair,” says Shane, “you never know what you’re saying.”

Ryan desperately wants to smile. “Female alphas have a cock,” he says, trying again, “but they also have the balls to go with it. Male omegas don’t get a matching set, and we have ‘female’ organs, too, and our prostates are in the wrong place, and we might as well be platypuses.” He shakes his head. “Platypi.”

“...Platypussies?”

He loses it, fucking  _ cackles _ as he cries. “That’s horrible. You’re horrible.”

“And you, Ry.” Shane rests his hand on the back of Ryan’s neck, making him gasp. “You aren’t horrible, at all.”

Being gentled devastates him, but a good devastation, restorative and freeing. Shane starts petting Ryan’s skin, a caress from his hairline to the nape of his neck. Ryan doesn’t understand any of the sounds coming out of his mouth; his body trembles as he struggles not to arch into Shane’s touch.

“This alright?” Shane asks.

“No one’s ever…” He strains through a whimper. “I’ve never asked to be gentled, or let anyone try.”

“Because?”

“Never found an alpha who’d take control of me.” Ryan could sink into his heat so easily, slip into the scalding bath of it, soothed by the steady stroke of Shane’s fingers. “I shouldn’t even complain. Trans dynamic people have it so much worse.”

“Sure, but  _ you’re _ the one I’m trying to help right now.” Shane slides his hand further down Ryan’s back. “Tell me what you need.”

His voice settles over Ryan like a balm. Ryan wants to take anything, everything Shane will give him, dissolve into the neediness he’s pushed aside during all of his other heats. Shane’s palm sears through the back of Ryan’s thin shirt, and he needs that hand all over his skin.

Even so. “I don’t want this to be a—a pity thing, or something you feel obligated to do.”

When Ryan meets his eyes again, Shane looks like he’s in pain comparable to Ryan’s. “Look,” he begins, “I’m well-aware that I’m not an ideal candidate, but I  _ am _ your friend.” His shoulders slump. “I can walk out far enough to get a signal. Call TJ or Zack to come pick you up and get you to a clinic.”

_ “Don’t.” _ Ryan clings to him, pounces Shane hard enough to nearly knock him over. “Please, Shane, Alpha,  _ don’t leave me like this.” _

“You don’t want me.”

“Yes, Shane, I  _ do.” _

“I’ve flirted with you for months,” says Shane, “and you’ve never shown an ounce of interest.”

“Then you’re officially the worst flirter ever.” Ryan’s lungs won’t work. Sweat plasters his hair to his head. The blockers have worn off, if Shane’s flared nostrils are any indication. “I had no idea.”

“Then maybe you’re blind. I don’t know.” Shane screws his eyes shut. “I don’t want to be a convenience fuck, especially when…”

“When  _ what?” _

But he doesn’t say, instead asks, “Why would you call me Alpha?”

“Because I love you, you enormous, idiotic, clueless son of a bitch!”

Ryan’s words and breath echo off the stone, piercing the silence settling between them. He watches Shane’s face shift from shock to disbelief, and beyond that, Ryan can’t read him, the world turning fuzzy at the edges.

“Dammit, Shane, say someth—”

“I’ve never knotted anyone!” he blurts out.

“Never? Are you a virgin?” Wincing, Ryan adds, “Not that it matters.”

Shane doesn’t answer that, either. “Can I hold you?”

“For, uh. For courage?”

“You’re an idiot, too, you know that?” He puts his arm around Ryan’s shoulders, and Ryan instinctively finds the right spot on Shane’s neck, scenting him deeply. Shane grabs Ryan’s hand, putting it on his face, leaning into it. His breath quivers as much as Ryan’s, lips close enough to Ryan’s wrist to practically be kissing his pulse.

Shane clears his throat. “I’ve had sex. What I mean is that no one wants...God, this is so stupid. I’m going to sound like a real knothead.”

“Don’t care.”

“No one wants all of me,” explains Shane. “I’m apparently too big.”

Somewhere, a pin drops.

Meanwhile, Ryan’s brain explodes, because,  _ “What?” _

“I’m...well. Proportionate.”

Ryan struggles not to pant into Shane’s neck. “How proportionate is proportionate?”

Shane hangs his head, like he’s trying to determine, like he can see through his pants. “I never exactly took measurements.”

“On a scale from one to John Holmes.”

“What, the serial killer with the hotel?”

“The  _ porn star.”  _ Before Shane can ask, Ryan tells him, “He was, like, ten inches long.”

“Why do you know?”

“Just—just answer the damn question, Shane.”

He scents Ryan’s wrist, their fingers laced together, back to palm. “I hate fractions. What—what’s between four-fifths and two-thirds-and-a-third?”

Ryan’s pelvic floor gives up under the onslaught of unbearable arousal. Slick gushes from his cunt, and Shane must smell it, because he starts growling, and holy  _ God, _ Ryan is going to combust.

“I had no idea you were a size queen,” and Shane’s voice sounds like sin.

“It never came up.”

“You sure about that?”

Ryan ignores him. “Look, I promise you aren’t a convenience fuck, and I’m running out of coherency, and I kind of need you to fuck me before I give up and jump you.”

“Well damn.” Shane smirks against the inside of Ryan’s arm. “You think you can take it?”

“Fuck if I know,” says Ryan, “but I’m down to fucking try.”

Shane pulls Ryan away from his neck by his hair; his grip on Ryan’s arm tightens; his eyes light up when Ryan whimpers. “Right here in front of a poltergeist?”

_ Oh. Right. _ “Well—”

“Maybe it would actually show up!”

“Are you seriously doing this now?” Not that Ryan’s cock seems to care, and his complaints dry up when Shane peels off Ryan’s tee.

“I guess it depends on how loud you are.” The shirt gets tossed unceremoniously over Shane’s shoulder, and his hands find their way to Ryan’s hair again. “Isn’t this kind of like having sex on someone’s grave?”

“Shut the fuck up, Shane!”

“If there’s a ghost, does that make this a threesome?”

Ryan wants to wipe the stupid grin off Shane’s stupid face. “I swear I will go find a rock to get off with.”

“You kinky bastard.”

“Shane—”

And Ryan had failed to notice Shane cradling the back of his head, or how Shane’s forearms pressed against the edges of his collarbone. He’d forgotten he already had his pillow out, but Shane hadn’t. His body puts up no resistance as Shane manhandles him to the ground, pulling an appreciative groan from Ryan’s throat. His back will be bruised in the morning from the sheer force applied to his body—how had he never noticed how strong Shane was?—but Ryan won’t have a concussion, not that he particularly cares, because  _ yes, fuck, yes. _

He remembers how to open his eyes.

“Surprise,” says Shane. When Ryan doesn’t reply, he asks, “Is it creepy to tell you I can smell you?”

“A—a little, yeah.”

Shane leans down, his lips beside Ryan’s ear. “And what if I told you  _ how _ you smell?”

Ryan’s breath stutters, his chest too tight for his lungs to expand, the hollow ache in his gut growing, intensifying. “How do I...tell me.”

“Ask me nicely.”

_ Oh fuck. _ “Please?”

Shane mouths along Ryan’s jaw, a hint of warmth Ryan wants to be blanketed with. “Like snow,” Shane tells him, “usually. Clean, like laundry, when your blockers wear off and you wake me up in the middle of the night.” His breath scorches Ryan’s neck, mouth so close to the glands Ryan might scream, if he could catch his breath. “Right now?” Shane drags the tip of his tongue over Ryan’s neck, chasing the jugular. “You smell like cedar, and you taste like frost—up here, anyway.”

A scrape of teeth right where a mate would bite, and Ryan swears he could come from nothing more than this, no matter how much he wants Shane’s mouth to travel down his body. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I guess there’s no body farm employment in my future.”

“Oh my god, just go back to the dirty talk.”

Shane huffs a laugh before sucking on Ryan’s pulse.

Any other time, with any other person, Ryan would be disgusted by the high-pitched moan he tries to muffle. He bites the inside of his cheek, mouth clamped close, because he doesn’t want to sound so omegan.

But Shane tuts, leaning back to look at Ryan, to watch him sweat. An eyebrow crawls up his face. “I want to hear you,” he says, hooking his thumb between Ryan’s lips, encouraging him to open his mouth. Shane strokes Ryan’s tongue—“There you go. What a good boy you are.”—and Ryan can’t help himself, closing his mouth around Shane’s thumb, sucking on it. “Oh, a  _ very _ good boy.”

Ryan arches his back, yearning for contact, for Shane to align their bodies, needing more, more,  _ more. _

“Do you want to find out what the rest of you smells like?”

_“Please,”_ says Ryan, garbled, Shane’s thumb still resting on his tongue. He lifts his hips obediently so Shane can pull his pants down his legs. Ryan’s underwear clings to him, soaked with precome and slick, but he doesn’t give a shit. He needs Shane to be closer, to hold him down, to fucking mount him.

“Soon, baby. Soon.”

Ryan hadn’t even known he was babbling; he must be further gone than he realized. The heat is all consuming, building higher and higher, an ecstatic agony, and he needs Shane to fuck him so badly he can taste it.

“No,” says Shane, voice raspy. “Gonna play with you first.”

“Hurts, Alpha,  _ please, _ it  _ hurts.” _

He shushes Ryan, kisses the corner of his open mouth, his cheek, his eyelids. “It’s okay,” he promises, “you’ll feel better soon, Ry, but I need you to be lucid.” Shane’s thumbs pull at corner of Ryan’s eyes. “That’s good, baby. That’s a good boy. Try to relax.”

Ryan presses into every touch, every place Shane stops to leave his mark, biting bruises down his torso. He assumes Shane intends to suck his cock, since he’s headed that direction; instead, Shane bypasses it all together and licks a stripe up the inside of Ryan’s thigh and straight to his cunt.

One pass of Shane’s tongue is all it takes to push him over. Ryan had balanced on the edge for hours; his head buzzes too fast to be embarrassed about coming so quickly.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” Shane sounds awed, and he doesn’t wait for an answer, which is good, since Ryan absolutely cannot give one while his brain melts. “Anyone else ever drank you down before?” He pushes Ryan’s legs apart, knees bent up, then grabs his wrists, holding him secure.

The noises Shane makes when he dives back in are  _ obscene, _ alternating between lapping incessantly and thrusting his tongue as deep inside as physically possible. Ryan squirms and keens and tries to hang on for the ride. His cock lolls against Shane’s forehead, and Ryan watches it harden again, precome dripping from the slit, weeping and matting into Shane’s hair. As for Shane, he makes the most appreciative hums Ryan’s ever heard, and it drives Ryan wild, knowing he’s pleasing his alpha by nothing more than existing.

His alpha.  _ His. _

The concave curve of Shane’s back is mesmerizing—Ryan can’t tear his eyes away, committing every sight and slurp and touch to memory. He tries to hump against Shane’s mouth, to fuck himself on his tongue, but Shane releases his wrists and wraps an arm around to pin down Ryan’s hips. With the other hand, he smacks the outside of Ryan’s thigh.

Shane stops eating him out as soon as the sound of the slap dissipates, and Ryan whines pitifully. “That okay?”

“Haz lo que quieras,” because English is both a stupid language and impossible to remember.

“I have zero idea what you just said,” Shane tells him, “but I’m going out on a limb and assuming it means yes.”

He slaps Ryan’s flank again, harder, a sting, a shock, divine.

“¡Alfa!” shouts Ryan, and lets go, succumbing to the heat curling into his brain like steam off a boil.

“Holy shit.” Shane keeps swearing, right up until he takes the tip of Ryan’s filled-out cock into his mouth. He doesn’t bob or suck, only laves the head, circling it with his tongue. Ryan goes limp, then completely boneless as Shane shoves two fingers into his cunt, and he comes again before Shane even locates his prostate.

His spent cock slips from Shane’s mouth; Ryan blinks his eyes open in time to watch Shane spit Ryan’s come onto his fingers before he thrusts them back into Ryan’s cunt.

It’s dirty. Filthy.

Ryan  _ loves it. _

“Goddammit,” says Shane, “look at you. So fucking wet, but here you are, taking your own come like you aren’t already drenched.”

Shane’s gaze burns, a spiritual brand.

He smiles, the Shane Ryan knows. “You in there, brown eyes?”

“Yeah,” Ryan croaks, throat raw. “Mostly.”

“Then welcome mostly back.”

He coughs out a laugh. “Blew my mind twice just to talk to me?”

“Not about to knot you if you’re out of your head.” Shane kisses Ryan’s forehead—Ryan swears he can feel the impression of his lips in the sweat on his brow. “I’d never do that to you.”

Ryan sighs blissfully, all loose-limbed, his heat briefly satisfied, more so with Shane continuing to slowly fuck him with his fingers. “I want it. Want you.” Shane nuzzles back into Ryan’s neck as he adds, “Maybe too much.”

“I’m not bonding with you in a cave when there might be a spooky witch watching us.” His lips caress Ryan’s scent glands.

“You’re turning down a chance to—oh  _ fuck _ —to claim the place for Shanesberg?”

“When I could claim you later?” Shane gazes at Ryan. “Of course I am.” He slips in another finger, snickers brightly when Ryan writhes. “You always put out on the first date?”

Ryan cants his hips, trying to get Shane’s fingers in the right place, pounding his fist on the floor when Shane withdraws entirely. “You always pussyfoot around in bed?”

“We’re hardly in bed.” Before Ryan can snap off a reply, Shane brings his hand to his mouth and licks Ryan’s slick off his skin. “Thought of something.”

“Whatever you’re about to say, you better say it.”

“I like you bossy, you know that?”

“I’m one of those lucky guys that doesn’t get a lot of time between heat addlement,” says Ryan, scowling. The first tendrils of renewed, sweltering arousal climb up his spine; the ache for a knot returns alongside.

“I didn’t exactly pack condoms.”

Ryan growls in frustration. “They make a little thing called an afterheat pill, you know.”

“Right,” says Shane, blinking, wide-eyed. “Right, I forgot.”

“Can we speed things up now? I’m  _ beyond _ ready.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you.” He bites his bottom lip, adding, “Also I like watching you squirm.”

“Okay, one, you’re a sadist, and two, maybe I don’t mind getting hurt.” Ryan rolls his eyes, but lets Shane turn his head and—“Oh.”

Shane’s knuckles stroke the back of Ryan’s neck, solid and sure. “You’ve got to trust me.”

The oxygen thins. “Soon?” he asks, breathy and sweet, his words sloshing around his skull, ping-ponging between being simultaneously gentled and wrapped back up in heat. “This is nice.”

“Good.”

Several long minutes trickle by, if Ryan’s sense of time can be trusted. He blindly slides his hands up Shane’s shirt, from hips to ribs to shoulders and back again. His skin feels cool against Ryan’s overheated palms, nipples pebbled beneath his fingertips. Shane shifts above him, and Ryan watches him swim into view, all rosy cheeks and fond eyes.

“Want to see you,” murmurs Ryan, tugging on the hem of the cotton tee. Shane obliges, pulling it off, tossing it aside. There’s no finesse involved, the two of them sharing a single aim: mutual nudity. He crawls back over Ryan when he’s finished, leaning on one elbow, head in his hand.

Curious, Ryan reaches down between Shane’s legs. He sits up to look between them.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, uh...yeah.” Shane moans when Ryan experimentally pumps his cock with his hand. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Terrible. Even for you.” But Ryan stops complaining after Shane’s fingers ease back into his cunt. They stroke along his walls, spreading him open. The syrupy smell of slick pervades the air, and the soft sounds of his cunt sucking in Shane’s fingers over and over are all Ryan can hear. When Shane purposefully hits Ryan’s prostate for the first time, rubbing it with a familiarity and expertise with Ryan’s body he simply can’t have, crooking his fingers and nudging, Ryan  _ wails. _

“Found it,” says Shane, and Ryan’s nerves are singing too loudly to be mad at the smugness in Shane’s voice.

“Fuck me,” Ryan gasps, even as he empties again on both their stomachs.

“Here I thought I was.” The movements grow jerky as Shane straddles him, looming overhead, shadow swaying on the ceiling. “This  _ is _ you, right?” and he punctuates by circling Ryan’s prostate, tortuously slow.

“Please, please, just _fuck me already.”_ Tears begin to gather in the corners of Ryan’s eyes. “Need you, your cock, your knot, cógeme, alfa—”

“Now how could I refuse when you babble so nicely?” Shane rolls them, puts Ryan back under him, grabs Ryan’s hips, lines up, and starts pushing in.

Ryan’s muscles seize up, because the stretch is  insane, even after the prepwork. His spent cock twitches again _ —again— _ and this might be the first night Ryan appreciates being an omega, knowing he’ll come a fourth time before Shane finishes, no matter how dry the orgasm will be.

“Too much?” asks Shane, and Ryan shakes his head fervently. “You want more, baby?”

“Dame más.” He can barely speak, doesn’t care how he sounds or what words actually come out of his mouth as long as Shane gives him,  _ “Todo.” _

Shane chews on his lip, grunting as he controls his movements, painstakingly slow, and Ryan pictures a day Shane doesn’t have to take his time, will glide right in. “Fuck, you feel good.” Another push. “Such a good boy.”

“¡Papi—!”

“Oh God.” Shane thrusts in hard enough to shock them both. “Okay, I know what  _ that _ word meant.” He circles his hips, and Ryan feels Shane grab the base of his cock, knuckles rubbing against Ryan, and the scent of his slick buries them both.

Shane pulls out, then pushes in a little more, angling in right against Ryan’s prostate. His hands fly up to grasp Shane by his shoulders; Shane drags him closer and keeps quarter-inching in.

An insignificant part of Ryan’s brain begins to worry about the fit, and he ignores the hell out of it.

“C’mon,” Shane says, “relax. Let me inside.” Out and farther in; out and farther in. Shane pulls Ryan’s legs up around his waist. “God, you’re perfect, you know that?”

Ryan’s eyes flutter shut. He loves the praise, and not only because it distracts from how hard taking Shane’s cock is proving to be.

“You like it when I tell you how good you are.” A statement, not a question. “I’d tell you in Spanish but _ — _ shit, you’re so tight.  _ Jesus.” _ He rocks forward again, and Ryan feels like he’s splitting in half. “I’d probably say something dumb. Call your mother a llama.”

_ “Shane.” _

“No, no, go back to ‘papi’, I liked that.” He licks his lips. “You know what else I like?”

One last, rough shove, and Shane’s flush against him. Ryan feels stuffed, and impaled, and fully fucking  _ glorious. _

“I like how pretty my baby boy is when he  _ takes it.” _

He returns to Ryan, and they touch everywhere, skin to skin and deeper. Ryan streams unintelligible sound, managing to lock his ankles behind Shane’s back; Shane laces their fingers together, hands joined over Ryan’s head. Their chests expand in tandem, and Shane starts to move.

Finding a rhythm takes a handful of seconds, if that long, but Ryan already feels like they’ve been lying here forever. Shane sucks more bruises into Ryan’s neck; he’ll be a patchwork of purple skin and bite marks come morning. Feeling his own possessive streak, Ryan latches his mouth onto Shane’s forearm, the only skin he can reach, relishing in the helpless moan it tugs out of Shane.

“No need to bite me,” he says. “Everyone already knows you’re mine.” Shane nibbles the lobe of Ryan’s ear and adds, “You’re going to smell like me.  _ Only _ me. No one will touch you; no knothead will even look twice. You’re going to feel me for days, I’ll fuck you so full.”

Ryan’s mouth falls open. “Papi,” over and over and over, like a prayer.

“Wanted this so long. Wanted to feel you warm around me, small and helpless beneath me. Wanted to be the one who made you feel good. Wanted you to scent the sheets of our beds for more than comfort.”

“Supiste—dammit, you knew.”

Shane nods, beard burning Ryan’s cheek, a mimicry of the friction in his cunt. “Didn’t think it was—fuck, I didn’t know why you did it. You’re so—so  _ everything, _ and I’m just me, and you’re the only omega in the office, and I was afraid I’d insult you, because you’re so damn independent, and strong, and I love you too much to make you feel like anything less, and—”

Ryan can’t stand it. He lifts his head, strains his neck, finds Shane’s lips, and shuts him up.

The kiss hardly qualifies as good, but it’s good enough. He’s pounding into him too hard for their mouths to do more than collide. Shane tastes like Ryan’s slick and come, his lips tacky from eating Ryan out. They breathe into each other, corespiration, and no translation is needed.

“Going to pop my knot,” Shane tells him. “Sure you can do this, baby boy?”

Ryan isn’t, but he still whispers, “Give it to me, papi.”

Shane snarls, picking up the pace; Ryan squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep breathing. The knot swells faster than Ryan’s dynamics ed teachers ever promised, impossible to determine if what he feels is pleasure or pain, his entire world narrowed down to one cruel stretch. Every time Shane’s knot squeezes in, it grows, makes it harder to pull out, but Ryan’s consoled by the twist on Shane’s face.

“Hurts?”

“Mhm,” says Shane. “Good?”

“I—I think so.”

Another thrust, and Shane can’t go anywhere but in. He releases Ryan’s wrists and reaches between them. “Better?” he asks, jerking Ryan’s forgotten cock, lubed with their own fluids.

Ryan can’t speak, because  _ yes, that is much better, _ and from the sounds coming out of Shane’s mouth, he agrees. When Ryan comes, it’s euphoric, no matter how much he feels like there’s a fist stuck in his cunt, even though he swears Shane’s cock is somewhere in his stomach. He doesn’t stop coming, Shane’s knot an incessant, insistent press against his prostate. Ryan’s cunt repeatedly contracts around Shane, milking him, and it’s hot as fuck, hot as the come spilling deep inside him.

Shane frames Ryan’s face between his big hands, and his eyes are liquid amber up close, and this kiss is better and more satisfying than the first. Every orgasmic end begets a new beginning, each kiss another, and another, and Ryan loses track of how long they stay tied together, irrevocable, immovable, and completely, entirely possessed.

 

* * *

 

He blacked out. Ryan had been certain people only blacked out in fictional sex, but no, Ryan had passed out like a goddamn no-longer-distressed damsel.

Shane wouldn’t shut up about how he fucked Ryan unconscious, either, shouting it proudly to the small crowd of Buzzfeed employees gathered outside the mouth of the cave, since his alpha instincts wouldn’t let either of them leave until the worst of the heat had passed. 

Ryan didn’t think the current owners of Bell Farm were nearly as enthusiastic about their main attraction being compromised because a couple of ghost-hunting hipsters were literally stuck together in a cave. They had to shut the farm down for the day—the whole place reeked with pheromones. Ryan imagines the company reimbursed them, though hopefully not from his and Shane’s paychecks.

The Bell Witch never showed her face, much to Ryan’s disappointment.

“Bet she was jealous.”

Ryan jabs Shane’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, smiling, exhausted. “And distracting. Do you have any idea how much editing I’ve got to do on this before we head back?”

“I maintain we should release the entire tape ‘accidentally.’”

“We’re not leaking  _ One Night in Bergara, _ Shane.”

“Of course we aren’t,” says Shane, flopping back on the hotel bed with a shit-eating grin. “We’ve still got two nights of heat to go.”

**Author's Note:**

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